


Pavlovian

by drinkbloodlikewine, whiskeyandspite



Category: Dominion (TV)
Genre: Claiming sex, Cuddling, Dirty Talk, Extablished Relationship, M/M, Nipple Play, Rough Sex, Stripping, Wing Kink, awkward dirty talk, wing porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-06
Updated: 2015-11-06
Packaged: 2018-04-30 07:10:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5154914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drinkbloodlikewine/pseuds/drinkbloodlikewine, https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskeyandspite/pseuds/whiskeyandspite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Lower your voice,” he purrs, his wings standing higher, surrounding him in a black corona as he steps closer. “You only ever see them when we’re -” Michael pauses on the word, hand extended.</i>
</p><p>  <i>Alex’s eyes narrow. “Fucking. When we’re fucking.”</i></p><p>  <i>“Yes. That. So it stands to reason that you associate them with -”</i></p><p><i>“</i>Fucking<i>,” Alex says again, as he grudgingly accepts Michael’s palm against his cheek.</i></p><p>  <i>“I would hate,” sighs Michael, “to diminish that association.”</i></p><p>Alex has a bit of a Pavlovian response to Michael's wings. Michael is delighted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pavlovian

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Omano](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Omano/gifts).



> Too much fun.
> 
> We're not even sorry about this one.

Upon his acceptance into the Angel Corps, Alex was declared to possess both sound mind and good character. The words stuck with him over years, validation and reassurance both as he faced long tedious shifts of standing security and sporadic attacks by eight-balls with equal aplomb. In moments where he questioned himself or found his strength wavering, he heard his superior officer’s voice from years before echo in his thoughts.

Sound mind.

Good character.

Not until he started regularly fucking the archangel did he begin to question that appraisement.

He watches Michael from a distance, stationed beside the door of the Senate’s meeting room as the counsel is brought to an end. Standing slowly, the archangel holds himself tall, an easy carriage that commands attention with whispers of strength in every stride. Clever eyes and a stern jaw give him an air of impatience; the low thrum of his voice demands to be heeded. His every gesture is elegance incarnate and those around him - regardless of their positions in the city - defer to his carefully chosen words.

Alex scarcely restrains a snort.

He knows Michael hears him shift even when he makes no sound. He knows because he tilts his head a certain way that suggests he is looking without looking - a certain way that suggests that he will _get to Alex later_ as there are others about to disrupt should he take matters into his hands immediately.

Alex parts his lips with his tongue and flexes his fingers against the gun in his hands. A few moments more and the Senate will disperse, everyone leaving with their guards in tow to return to their lavish rooms and lavish lives to think about running the city. Maybe it’s unfair. In truth Alex - nor anyone else - knows what gets discussed behind those walls. Perhaps the choices they make truly are the better of two evils.

Alex regards the angel again. He stands with his hands clasped before him and his shoulders straight, a soldier himself, after all, and his lips turn just barely in a smile. Something is murmured his way and he inclines his head in agreement. More words are exchanged, those gentle lips turning over words that shift mellifluous through the room, and then he turns to go.

Alex moves to follow.

He keeps his head high and his steps steady. To be fair, after years in the military, Alex couldn’t shake those habits if he tried. Ahead of him the archangel’s coat swings against his long legs, a purposeful walk to the roof where he will take to his eyrie with -

\- with -

Alex jerks his jaw tight and ignores the tug in his stomach.

\- with his enormous wings.

There, he thought it and he didn’t trip.

Sound mind.

Good character.

Maybe he’ll make an invitation to Alex, who will have to walk all the way over to the fucking Stratosphere and take the elevator. Maybe he won’t, and Alex will go back to his bunk and try not to jerk off from frustration and annoyance both, imagining who Michael’s fucking instead. He’ll fail, of course, and skulk off to the lavatory like a horny teenager. Again.

A hiss of sound draws his attention back to the tall, dark figure before him.

And there. The beautiful things so wide that one can reach from tip to root with outstretched arms on one wing alone. They change color in the sun, Alex notices. They are charcoal and raven-black, blues and greens and violets iridescent as Michael turns to him.

To him.

To talk, and tell him something.

And all Alex can hear is the whisper-soft trembling of them when Michael hits his climax and moans soft against Alex beneath him.

“Alex.”

“Yes?”

“Are you to make it a habit of ignoring me?”

“I wasn’t.”

Michael’s eyes narrow and Alex wonders at how much willpower he actually has that he doesn’t come on the spot.

“Evening,” Michael repeats. “The patrols. I would like you to organize a new roster.”

“I… sure.” Alex swallows. The wings stretch and move behind Michael as he watches. He knows how they feel against his fingertips and palms.

“That won’t be too hard for you?”

“What?”

“Hard, Alex,” Michael purrs the words. “It would not be too much to ask of you to do the job on your own? I trust you can, because I trust no one else in the Corps to do so.”

Alex blinks. “No. Nope. Not hard. Flaccid. EASY. Easy. I can do it.”

Michael tilts his head, a bare shift of movement that ripples through his wings. Each feather lifting from its base only enough to catch the light, but spilling color through like waves as they rise and settle again. Alex grips the barrel of his gun tighter and thinks of stroking Michael with both hands as he ruffles, feathers prickling when he moans -

“ _Alex_.”

“Sir,” he breathes, blood flowing fast enough to dizzy him, muscles tightening with a surge of want that leaves him feeling like he’s gotten a boot to the gut.

“Did you hear me?”

“Sir,” whispers Alex again, an admission in itself.

Michael’s eyes narrow, glinting bright as the blades ubiquitous at his sides. “I said, Alex, that I believe you are entirely capable of doing it. Now, in fact.”

Alex swallows again but his throat is entirely dry, his eyes wide, his hands numb with how hard he clutches his gun. He licks his lips and raises his brows and attempts to be the good of mind and sound of character man he is believed to be. Or whatever.

“It’s afternoon, Michael,” he replies.

It’s rare that the archangel seems surprised by anything. Not when he knocks yet another lamp off the bedside table when he snaps his wings open too quickly. Not even the time when doing just that he toppled Alex’s sidearm to the floor and it discharged into the roof of the eyrie. He’d simply blinked, once, and fucked Alex even harder into the mattress.

It takes everything in Alex not to groan at the thought, lowering his weapon a little, across his hips.

The archangel tilts a smile to him, eyes drawing up a little. “Is that a problem? Beyond the one -”

No.

“- you seem to have -”

 _No_.

“- already -”

Sound mind.

“- between your -”

Good character.

“- legs?”

 _Fuck_.

Alex’s brows rise higher and all he can do is slowly nod, a sound escaping his throat that is somewhere between a noise of agreement and curiosity. It comes out somewhere in the vicinity of a sound an animal would make when in pain.

“Not a problem,” Alex manages after a while. “Not at all. Reorganization of the roster for the Angel Corps patrols for evening’s shift. I got it. I’m on it.”

“And the other?”

“Isn’t a problem.”

“Really?”

Alex swallows hard and it takes a lot not to just step closer and kiss the damn angel, public be damned. 

“Really,” he whispers, but Michael’s eyes narrow and his wings lift and Alex is so fucking hard that he’s dizzy with it.

“Come with me.”

How? How in the hell is he going to make it to the roof, let alone across this notch of Vega to the Stratosphere, let alone not come in his fucking uniform as soon as he’s in the elevator? Clearly the analysis of his capabilities was made too quickly; clearly he’s fucking incapable of doing his job when he can hardly even walk behind the archangel as he turns to go.

Alex sucks in a deep breath and holds it, grimacing unseen at the ache in the pit of his belly.

He can hardly walk, sure, but he does anyway. Stiff steps after the archangel’s long strides, up the single set of stairs and past the security guards out onto the roof. Alex starts to thank God that they don’t seem to notice his condition, but then remembers that God is gone and he curses instead.

Michael stretches his wings - Alex is fairly fucking sure it’s a deliberate motion - and spreads them, flexing the muscles that support them, that give them motion and life. And then, slowly, another set unfurls beneath the flight wings. And then the third. Six wings bright and wide enough to put a solar eclipse to shame and Alex moans.

He can’t help it. 

He lets his gun hang from his shoulder and shoves a hand between his legs and moans.

“Michael, what the hell?”

The archangel blinks slowly, his gaze following the length of Alex’s body like fingers, to finally rest where his own fingers curl hard. “That’s out of order, soldier.”

“You’re fucking - you’re out of order!” Alex exclaims, releasing himself with a snarl of frustration. “I’m on duty!”

“Something is, anyway.”

“ _Michael_!”

“Lower your voice,” he purrs, his wings standing higher, surrounding him in a black corona as he steps closer. “You only ever see them when we’re -” Michael pauses on the word, hand extended.

Alex’s eyes narrow. “Fucking. When we’re fucking.”

“Yes. That. So it stands to reason that you associate them with -”

“ _Fucking_ ,” Alex says again, as he grudgingly accepts Michael’s palm against his cheek.

“I would hate,” sighs Michael, “to diminish that association.”

Alex’s eyes widen and he tries to step back but again, those damn wings and Michael’s flawless control of them as one wraps around behind him and draws him near...

“Don’t,” Alex whispers.

“Why?”

“It’s…” He has no good reason, his entire body is aching for this, for Michael, for a fuck or a fight or both. They are secluded up here on the rooftop with the door slammed shut behind them and the guards kept at bay by the soundproof edges. “It’s out of order?” Alex whispers, and it lacks any and all conviction. And who cares anyway, because when he pushes up on his toes and presses a rough kiss to the archangel’s lips it feels fucking great.

He resents and loves when Michael hums a little note of approval into their kiss. He resents and loves when Michael spreads Alex’s lips with his own to guide his tongue between. He resents and he loves, he fucking loves, when Michael’s flight wings surround him and jerk their bodies together.

Michael’s fingers slide to his hair and Alex lets his own snare in the archangel’s stupid trenchcoat. He pulls him closer in his stupid boots and they stumble, kissing roughly, as if he weren’t still on duty and as if this weren’t happening yet again. It’s stupid, it’s painfully stupid, that he gets hard over feathers and he would have walked the whole way to the Stratosphere anyway and that this keeps fucking happening.

Sound mind?

Good character?

Bullshit.

The kiss is as much a fight as their verbal foreplay is in public. And it is that, certainly, it can be nothing else. Michael and his narrowing eyes and beautiful lips that press just so and the marks on his skin that fit perfectly to his human form. He is exquisite, he is unreal in his beauty, and Alex makes another needy noise against him.

“How?”

“As you are.”

“Not doable,” Alex pants. “Too much… stuff. Too much. Can we just -”

“From here?”

“Yes!”

“Ask me,” Michael says, tilting his head with that gentle little smirk that sets Alex’s heart to stuttering. “Ask me nicely.”

“Get me off this fucking roof,” Alex mutters, and Michael’s smile quirks just a flicker higher. “Get me into your fucking bed. Now, Michael. Please.”

“Now?”

“ _Michael!_ ” Alex hisses, but his snarl is cut short when Michael grabs him hard around the waist. His wings spread - all fucking six of them - and with a gust of wind from above to below, Alex is suddenly airborne.

His breath leaves him bereft of even his curses; his laughter peels free instead. In an instant, Vega becomes small beneath them, a city of a few tall buildings and many in their shadows; a city of light glittering bright from glass and metal, kept safe from the barren waste beyond by damming walls. Old casinos in the distance stand like tombstones in the dust, falling to ruin in the form of faded townships beneath. Alex blinks and gasps as the city spins away below. He holds tight around Michael’s neck, clambering against him and trying to hold still all at once as they flap together toward the eyrie.

Even if he falls, he supposes there are worse views to have before it happens.

He doesn’t fall. 

Michael doesn’t let him. Holding against Alex with care, unlike the times he shoots them both to the top of the damn tower only seconds after standing at the bottom of it. When they land it is graceful, when Alex tries to catch his breath it is taken from him again. Michael’s hands frame his face and he walks Alex backward through the huge open window and up the stairs to the bed.

As Alex had asked.

Nicely.

 _Fuck_.

Alex lays sprawled, legs akimbo and elbows to the plush bed to hold himself up. His gun is on the floor, his clothes will follow shortly, he is certain. He swallows and watches Michael before him, taking the few strides necessary to get to the foot of the bed, to stand between Alex’s feet.

“Shit,” Alex breathes. “Okay.”

“Thank you.”

“Thank you,” Alex repeats, smiling.

“Now,” Michael sighs, with a shiver down his wings. “Undress. You’re off duty.”

The flight, the height, had done wonders to ease the tension between Alex’s legs, but it all comes roaring back with a rush of blood and a hum in his ears. He squints at Michael and waits until the archangel lifts a brow, expectant, before reaching for his uniform’s buttons.

“Slowly,” says the archangel.

“This isn’t a fucking -”

“It is,” interjects Michael. “Precisely that.”

Alex doesn’t have time to complain again before the sight of the city beyond the eyrie’s windows vanishes, blacked out by Michael’s wings. He kneels between Alex’s legs, hands pressed to the satin and silk and fucking velvet and whatever else makes up his sheets as he slinks closer. Alex pops another button loose and the archangel sweeps a kiss rough against his mouth, bearing him back helpless beneath.

It’s like the worst porno and the best porno, all at once, and it’s happening to Alex Lannon.

Awesome.

Another button, another kiss, and Alex moans. Up here, he doesn't give a damn if he’s loud, if he’s wanton, if he’s desperate and aching. Up here, he and Michael know what they want from each other and how to get it. Up here, they are lovers and Alex feels worshipped.

He gasps as Michael begins to kiss the soft skin revealed beneath buttons and eager hands. Alex arches and Michael patiently presses him down again, lips parting as his eyes close to suck devouring kisses against Alex’s chest. Over and over the markings there, lips parted against a peaked, dark nipple to suck, as his elegant fingers seek out the other to gently pinch.

“Michael, fuck -”

“Keep going,” Michael purrs, and Alex does. With a groan and another arch against the angel above him, he rocks his body seeking more stimulation, less, a rough fuck, tender kisses, everything all at once.

“Your fucking mouth,” Alex moans, teeth gritting as Michael sucks a little harder against the little nub, teasing with his tongue across its pebbled surface. “Oh fuck, stop - stop - don’t -”

Alex’s cheeks bloom hot beneath his eyes - he can hardly keep them open. He doesn’t know what the hell he’s saying anymore, cock leaking into his pants and smearing hot across his skin. Michael swipes his tongue in a languid lick across Alex’s nipple and then relents enough that he can catch a shuddering breath.

“You’re very sensitive,” notes Michael, pressing a kiss to the center of Alex’s chest, another beside it. Alex’s eyes widen, meeting the archangel’s gaze as he works his way lazily towards Alex’s other nipple.

It's rare that they have the time for this. Usually when they press close and touch slow, it is post-coital, both exhausted and sated and barely awake. As far as foreplay goes… Alex has hardly demanded it but hell if it isn't a welcome surprise.

“It feels good,” Alex mumbles, finally finished with his shirt and slipping to work open his belt as Michael bends to devour this nipple the same as the other. Alex slips a hand into his pants and the other through Michael’s hair, letting his head fall back to the sheets with a low groan. Each hot sweep of Michael’s tongue across his chest, hairless and tattooed in sigils neither can discern, uncurls a shiver down his spine. Each kiss sucked against his - yes, fucking sensitive - nipple bends his body from the bed, cock driving into his fist as he strokes himself near to coming just from this alone. He snares hold of Michael’s hair and earns no relief but only a warning hum in response.

“Michael,” Alex whispers, voice rough, body already quaking. “I’m going to -”

“If you do now,” Michael responds, “then I’ll simply make you do it again when I prefer it.”

“When you prefer,” sputters Alex. “What do you mean, fucking ‘again’?”

A hard suck against his nipple is Michael’s only answer, as he bends his shoulders and closes his wings just long enough to shed his coat and tug off his shirt, before returning to tease with his teeth. Michael’s clothes hit the ground with a _flumpf_ echoed by the snap of wings, one set after the next after the next, spreading wide.

He is a menace. A ridiculously beautiful menace.

“You tease,” Alex complains, squirming. His pants are pulled down by strong hands as he wriggles to try and free himself from them. His boots are unceremoniously tossed to the ground before he is fully bared. “Fuck. Touch me, please. Fingers… tongue, fuck, Michael, I’m not built to come twice just -”

Michael blinks and slowly turns his eyes up, releasing his kiss from Alex’s besieged nipple and almost primly thumbing away a hint of spit from his bottom lip. His nipple’s probably going to be fucking bruised, scraping sore against his uniform, and every time it’s going to remind him of this. Black wings and pale eyes, ivory skin and glossy hair. Every time it’s going to tug at his cock and Alex swallows so hard that his throat clicks.

“But you are,” Michael responds, shifting forward to cover Alex with his body, pushing free from his own pants as he writhes forward. His breath spills warmth against Alex’s ear as he whispers, feathers hissing as they spread when their cocks touch together. “Of course you’re built that way.”

“No. We’re not. I’m not. It’s one-and-done, that’s how it works,” he insists, his argument giving way to a moan as Michael takes their lengths in hand and strokes them together. Michael’s smile spreads and parts, tongue tracing the curve of Alex’s ear. He takes the lobe between his teeth and tugs, once.

“What sense would that make? Human reproductive strategies are the same as any other,” Michael shrugs. The movement arches his wings and winds down his arm to a firm twist of wrist. “Spreading one’s seed again and again until -”

“Don't,” Alex laughs. The idea of a reproduction lecture from an archangel now doesn't fall into his realm of kinks. He drags his nails up Michael’s back instead, settling against the soft and warm back feathers where the wings join muscle in a flawless ombre. Fingers grasp against feathers, gently tugging, gently rubbing through the sharp little lengths and points. Above him Michael makes a weak sound and ruts down harder. 

He remembers the messy molting process. He remembers the way Michael coiled like a cat when Alex pulled free the old feathers. He had always assumed it was because of the relief of clean wings, but this…

“Should I-” Alex’s fingers work to lightly tug the feathers, slipping beneath to the soft down and back again. He laughs when Michael grows weak from it, shuddering a groan low against Alex’s throat.

“Yes,” he says, releasing their cocks to shove them together between their bellies instead. Alex bites his lip and grins, rocking back up against him, spreading his fingers again beneath the feathers that in a heartbeat could become razor-sharp and hard as steel. Each stir of soft down, each twist along a feather-shaft, is like a pebble thrown into a pond, rippling through the archangel in shivers of delight.

“Ask me,” Alex whispers. “Ask me nicely.”

He doesn’t need to speak Lishepus to know a curse when he hears one. He doesn’t need to see Michael’s lips to know they’re curled against his teeth. Alex pushes harder against Michael’s wings, tugging them like he would Michael’s hair, and Michael’s moan is Alex’s victory.

“Please,” he whispers. “Please, Alex, keep touching them - just like that.”

It will be a long day, a longer night if Michael still wants - and he will want - Alex to adjust the roster. But for now, the drawn out pleasure, the teasing with which both play... this is perfect.

“Terrifying Michael,” Alex whispers. “Stoic and strong and proud, so undone by a tickle of feathers…”

“Shall I tickle you with them instead?” Michael’s eyes narrow, and for the first time, the first fucking time since they’ve been together - hell, the first time fucking ever - Alex watches as a blush spreads scarlet across Michael’s cheeks. “A breath, soldier, a breath and they’re blades.”

A chill runs through Alex at the thought, both frightening and entirely too hot. Alex squirms up towards the top of the bed, grinning when Michael follows at a stalk.

“Will you heal me if you do?” He asks, shivering when Michael sets his teeth to Alex’s neck and sucks a mark there.

“You ask for unspeakable things,” Michael murmurs, but he hardly sounds scandalized. He sounds delighted.

“Who would have thought you’d be so damned kinky,” Alex breathes. “Michael… please.”

“Spread.”

Alex nearly comes at the command, the moan building in his chest emerging instead as a weak-willed whimper. He clings to Michael’s wings, fingers set against the firm ridge of bone where it meets to his back, and pushes his heels into the sheets on either side of the archangel. Michael’s gaze follows the length of his body, enough that Alex feels his cheeks burn again and he curses.

A swath of spit rubbed against himself and Alex in turn, enough to open but not ease, and Michael presses himself close. The blunt pressure nearly burns and Alex shakes, his honed body weak to this, weak to Michael, always. Another curse spills against Michael’s shoulder as he fills him in unrelenting little strokes, an inch deeper, an inch deeper still, until he’s all but pushed his breath from him entirely and Alex can only squeeze a laugh from his empty lungs.

He misses this when he doesn't have it. On nights the archangel seeks other company Alex is jealous of it. He knows better than to ask, than to even suggest, but the sensation is always there, tight in his throat and pressing his lungs.

And then he is here again.

And he feels peeled apart and alive.

“Yes,” he breathes. “Michael, more, please -”

The Angel kisses him deep, silencing him and accepting the need and heat and adoration within. He parts their lips with a strand of spit between them before it snaps. He turns his head into a nuzzle against his Chosen One and buries himself into his warmth.

He misses him, when others share his bed.

That isn’t to say Michael doesn’t enjoy it - of course he does. To a degree. To a degree, he enjoys feeling new hands against his skin and new voices against his ear. To a degree, he enjoys discovering what makes mortals move, each one unique. To a degree, he is always thinking of Alex as others occupy his bed.

Alex’s fierce fingernails and snarling lips.

Alex’s firm arms and limber body.

Alex’s dry humor and quick temper and the all-too-gentle kisses that always follow.

And then he is here again, and Michael can’t imagine that he would rather have any other.

Chosen One, indeed.

Alex’s hands catch Michael’s wings again, resistance by which Alex can lever himself against the archangel’s hard claiming. It hurts to be fucked so hard, he aches for days after as every muscle snares exhausted when he stands or walks or sits or does anything at all. There’s no other way he’d rather have it, spread and spent and exhausted. There’s no other way he’d rather be had than by the possessive archangel who mounts him as if he owns him and fucks him as if it’s their last night on Earth.

They trap the other in a kiss, lips mashed together, parting to allow their tongues to snare. Alex’s cock beads and drips against his belly, when he comes suddenly with a shock of pleasure he hardly relents. A lift of ruffled feathers spreading and smoothing is the only sign that Michael’s noticed as their kiss breaks so both can breathe, brows together and hooded eyes focused on the other.

“I thought of you,” Michael whispers, his voice low as distant thunder, rough as branches cracking beneath the torrent of a flood. “In the meeting, as you stood guard, thinking I didn’t see you watching me. My brave soldier, we’re not so different. Do you imagine you don’t drive me mad, standing there so serious with your uniform and your gun?”

Alex laughs. “People will talk.”

“Let them.”

It is at once an honor and a scarlet letter to be claimed and had by the angel. Women vie in droves to have Michael notice them. Men, too, Alex is sure. And he, who had so long resisted before he had to be claimed, was wanted from the beginning. 

Alex twists his fingers in the thick feathers and tugs, pulling a helpless sound from the archangel above him. His angel. He knows it as well as Michael.

“Claim me, then,” Alex murmurs.

Michael drives himself deep, hard enough that his hips will leave pale shadows bruised on Alex’s pale thighs, hard enough that he loses himself with a groan as familiar fingers ruffle his feathers and he melts moaning into Alex’s kiss. Hard enough that he feels the formation of stars prickling hot beneath his skin and sees them bright behind his eyes. Hard enough that he hopes Alex knows what his own mind has such difficulty comprehending and his words are insufficient to speak.

Alex is his, above all others.

Sound mind.

Good character.

His Chosen One, in every way.


End file.
